


Calendar Pages

by Hinny_B



Series: Nick Nightly's Bedtime Stories AU [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Character Death, Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mild Language, Self-Esteem Issues, Shermie is good bro, Stan has all of them, You Have Been Warned, but Ford has some too, but then it hurts again, dad!stan, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23043097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinny_B/pseuds/Hinny_B
Summary: Life has it's ups and downs. It brings both joy and sorrow and you hope you can make it through. Stan's life is going nowhere until someone amazing comes back into it. Ford's is always moving forward and he can't wait to show the world what he can do. They're on separate paths now, but their time apart will make them who they will become.
Relationships: Carla McCorkle/Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Series: Nick Nightly's Bedtime Stories AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655992
Comments: 76
Kudos: 99





	1. Big Joy, Little Joy: Stan

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is what happens when I want to write a fic, but the background to what happens in that fic keeps wanting to be fleshed out. Eventually it turns into its own thing. Then I decide to write it in a non-linear fashion. You're welcome. I will warn you that though this is labeled Hurt/Comfort, there will be more hurt after the comfort, but Hurt/Comfort/Hurt is not a tag...yet. Yes, a character will die, and I want readers to know that ahead of time. Though that'll be more important to what happens in the following fic.
> 
> I want to give a shout out to my lovely beta reader, Ariel_Tempest, who isn't part of the GF fandom, but was willing to work their magic on this. Thanks for putting up with me writing about these two emotionally constipated men.

### June 12, 1975

“Are you ready?” the nurse asked.

Stan wanted to say no, to turn and high tail it to the nearest state line as fast as he could. There was no way anyone in their right mind should be handing Stanley Pines something as small and precious as a baby. Yet, he stood still and nodded stiffly, his eyes never leaving the little white bundle with a pink, blue, and white striped stocking cap.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. They’re a lot more durable than you think,” she said kindly, giving him a smile. “Just hold out your arm like you’re passing off a football.”

“Heh, you’re lucky I actually played for a few weeks in high school,” he replied, declining to add why he’d quit. This wasn’t the time to dwell on that, not with a newborn inches from his waiting arms.

The nurse, easily slid the baby into his arms and he pulled her to his chest. Her tiny scrunched up face was red, her eyes tightly closed, unused to this bright new world she found herself in. She shifted ever so slightly in his arms and Stan felt his heart flutter.

“See, I knew you could do it.”

“Don’t congratulate me yet, I have eighteen years to mess things up,” he choked out, trying to joke, but it came out half-hearted and melancholy. His glasses seemed to be going out of focus, he swore it wasn’t his eyes watering.

The woman patted him on his arm. “You know what, the good ones always worry they’re going to mess up. That’s been my experience at least. You’ll be a fine father.”

Stan swallowed thickly, hoping that she was right, because right now everything was surreal and terrifying. He had a baby in his arms. His baby in his arms. He was a father now.

 _I won’t be anything like Pops,_ he promised her, tears, (okay, he was admitting they were tears), prickling the corners of his eyes. He’d wipe them away, but his arms were full.

Another nurse came into the room, shooing Stan and the first nurse out of the way. She lowered the rail on the single bed in the room as the orderlies wheeled in Carla. They moved her to the bed, checking her IV and heart monitor before writing the readings down on her chart.

“See if she can breastfeed. The sooner the baby latches on, the better,” the second nurse said to the first before hustling out behind the orderlies.

Cautiously Stan approached the bed. “Hey Hot-pants.”

“Hey, Hot-stuff,” she replied groggily. “That our girl?”

“Yeah.”

He walked over and sat in the chair on the opposite side of the bed as Carla propped herself up, or tried too, to get a better look.

“Eighteen flipping hours kid,” she scolded. “Then you have the nerve to lose oxygen, not once, but three times! Made your poor mom have an emergency C-section. I blame your father’s side of the family for your attitude.” She huffed, a partial laugh, then held out her arms. “I want to hold her.”

“You just went through labor and a C-section you should rest.”

“Nope, I want to hold her. Besides, you heard the nurse, time for this dairy to be open for business.”

He laughed. A real laugh. The first since Carla had gone into labor yesterday afternoon. The tension melted from his body and his wife pouted, holding out her hands, alternating between demanding and whining speech. With much ceremony, he passed their daughter to her and watched in fascination as Carla peeled back the swaddling cloth enough to scoop out one tiny hand. She smiled as the baby reflexively wrapped her fingers around Carla’s index finger.

“Hi there little girl. I’m your mommy and you’re going to be such trouble, I just know it. You’re our child after all, so if you don’t sneak out of your room to see your boyfriend at least once as a teenager, I will have failed as a parent.”

“Only once?” Stan asked. “I recall you sneaking out multiple times when we were first dating.”

“That’s because my dad didn’t like you,” she replied. Her smile faltered, her eyebrows drawing together.

“He still doesn’t.”

“That’s his problem, not ours.” Carla began pulling the cloth away and pulled out the other hand, gently stretching the baby’s fingers as she did. “Stanley-”

“Is there a problem Mrs. Pines?” the nurse asked, coming to her bedside.

“Not a problem-”

Stan narrowed his eyes. He counted the fingers on the hand Carla was holding. The nurse gasped.

“Oh my. That’s um… nothing to worry about, but I shall contact Doctor Ellis immediately.” She turned and left, hurrying as fast as she could to find the surgeon.

“Heh, looks like we have a little Sixer,” Stan said. “Another polydactyl Pines.” His throat tightened, but he managed to wipe his eyes and nose on his upper arm before he dripped on Carla. There would be time to sift and sort out the emotions those twelve small fingers dredged up from the depths where he’d sunk them later. For now, his wife’s pensive expression was worrying.

“Carla?”

“Hmm?”

Laying his hands over her hand and the baby, he waited for her to look him in the eye. “What happened to Ford won’t happen to her. We’ll nip it in the bud as soon as we learn about it.”

She chuckled humorously. “What won’t happen? The bullying or the fact he turned into an arrogant prick? Because we both know bullying will happen, but if she starts being holier than thou, then I may just dump her in the arctic and see how much she likes living with the penguins!”

“Polar bears are in the… Okay, bad timing.”

“Yes.”

“But I understand,” he said. “You don’t like Ford.”

“Stanley, he said the most awful stuff about you after you got kicked out. How can I not be mad about that? Said he was better off without you, that he was going places and you were dead weight around his neck. I mean…” Sniffing, she stared back down at their daughter. “I know we’d broken up by then, but I couldn’t stand the things he said. He went from being a shy awkward, but rather harmless, know-it-all to an awkward know-it-all with an all-star quarterback level ego in a day. Is it wrong of me to be glad you don’t have contact with your family anymore?”

“No.” The word hung in the air for a minute as Stan wrestled with his conscience. Carla was open and honest with him, why was it still hard for him to be the same? She gazed at him expectantly, seeming to realize that he wanted to say more and was letting him take all the time he needed. The baby stirred, shifting in her blanket and pursing her lips together.

“I send Ma postcards once in a while,” he admitted. “I know we decided no contact with’em, but she’s my mother and, well, she tried.” He emphasized the last word, hoping Carla would understand why he couldn’t completely cut her from his life. Heck, if Ford ever wanted to actually talk to him, he’d try to mend fences with him. Ma kept testing the waters, but Ford had turned as hard headed as Pops. So it wasn’t a stretch to believe what Carla said about him to be true, leaving Stan to mull over how much he truly wanted his twin back in his life if that was his attitude.

“I know,” she said softly. “She writes back. I’ve been leaving them in the mailbox for you to pick up. I don’t mind her. She did look for you after you were thrown out, so it’s okay to tell her about us, and her, if you’re ready.”

“I’ll think about it,” Stan replied, pulling his hands to his lap. This wasn’t the time to press the issue further. There would be days long after this when both mother and daughter were home that he could make that decision, together with Carla. What he needed to do now was focus on his family. 

“You still thinking Leanne as a first name?” he asked.

“I’m unsure, I like it, but I heard another woman had named her daughter Leanne while in line at the grocery store Monday. That makes the third one I’ve heard of in the last two weeks. I don’t want her ending up like my cousin, one of three Susans in her class. Do you still want Abigail?”

“Abigail was the craziest old dame I ever met. Taught me how to drive like a bootlegger when I was in Kentucky.” He grinned broadly at the memory. “Saved me from being run out of town.”

“Oh, with an endorsement like that, how can we not use it?” Carla teased.

“I’ve worn you down on that one?”

“It’s the only suggestion of yours I actually like. Shirley sounds like a joke waiting to happen.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Shirley, you jest.”

Stan’s eyes widened. “Oh my gosh. How did I not see that one?”

“I don’t know, maybe you should’ve been wearing your glasses more often as a kid?”

They laughed for a moment as their daughter fussed and squirmed. Tucking the swaddling cloth back around her, Carla hummed and shushed her.

“I should try feeding her.”

“Yeah, before the doctor comes in to tell us poor parents how our child has a defect. Which she doesn’t.”

“No. Now how do I do this? Just pull down the gown? I mean, would it kill them to make these gowns in a two piece?”

He could only shrug and watch as she gave up and pulled the thing down with her free hand then try and fit the nipple into their daughter’s mouth. It was harder than it seemed. She was still struggling with it when Doctor Ellis and the nurse finally turned up. They whisked his baby off for a few minutes, leaving Stan with the urge to follow them, but he’d been firmly told not to. They were at the nursery and would be back shortly. Carla slipped her hand into his.

“It’ll be fine Stan,” she said. “I promise. You don’t have to break anyone’s nose.”

“Not yet,” he muttered. She laughed.

“Abigail Leanne Pines, what do you think Stan?”

He paused, eyes still on the doorway. “I think that one has potential.”


	2. Big Joy, Little Joy: Ford

### July 20, 1981

Stanford Pines excitedly walked across his study, his thoughts buzzing like a hive of bees awaiting dawn to start their day, making it impossible to sit still. He said yes! Fiddleford was coming out to help him with his project. Ford’s joy couldn’t be contained within the pages of Journal 3, the entry brief and to the point, unlike many of his others. He simply couldn’t sit still long enough to write how much his college friend willingness to join him in Gravity Falls meant. Though he’d tried, only getting a few words in before he needed to jump up, pace, and shout ‘he said yes’ to the gnomes rooting under his deck.

It would still be a week or more before Fiddleford actually arrived; he needed to settle some things in California first. He was a married man and a father now, and couldn’t simply up and leave with all he needed in his suitcase anymore. So Ford would have to wait, and shower.

Pausing, he took a cursory sniff of his underarm. Yes, definitely a shower and launder his clothes. Maybe scrub down the kitchen too since Fiddleford would be staying at the house for a bit.

_“Tate’s startin’ kindergarten this fall,” Fiddleford had said over the phone. “I don’t like missing his first day of class, but I’d like to see ‘im and Emma May on weekends.”_

_“My house isn’t, child safe,” Ford told him. “Especially for a child so young.”_

_“Of course, which is why I’ll be lookin’ to rent.”_

_“You’ll be welcome here as long as you need.”_

The kitchen was filthy. Ford wasn’t sure how he’d let it get so bad. Dishes overflowed the sink, a stack of used bowls and glasses tottered beside it, impersonating the Leaning Tower of Pisa right before an earthquake. The dishwasher was empty, except for ten coffee cups, one plate and a spoon. There was a greasy film across the stove and on the wall behind it that was gritty and gray. 

“Ma would be furious if she saw this,” he muttered as he searched for a sponge. This was going to take a while. Best to clean the kitchen and decide which room he could give up as a guest room first, then launder and shower.

With a plan in mind, he finally located a package of unopened sponges and dish soap. He wasn’t sure how it’d ended up in the refrigerator. He’d have to clean that too. No, he could save that for tomorrow, this would take the entire evening. He scrubbed and wiped in silence. The dishes that fit into the dishwasher were packed in as tightly as he could. Pot and pans, the few he’d used over the week, along with what dishes didn’t make it into the dishwasher were washed properly, dried, and put away. He made three passes on the grease build up behind the stove, stopping once for nearly two hours while trying to create a better solvent to break down the grease. He only succeed in wasting time, shelving the project for another day. By the time he got to putting away the dishes from the dishwasher, he noticed the cupboards needed to be wiped down too.

Ford wondered if he’d ever be done at this rate and chastised himself for putting it off to begin with. He could almost hear his mother’s nasally voice scolding him on his housekeeping skills. He sprayed the cupboards with cleanser and began wiping in on going silence.

Normally he didn’t mind the silence, he’d been living alone for five years now and was used to it. Today though, instead of the comfort it often afforded him, it was heavy, leaden, and unsettling, running counter to his current mood. Ford went to his study and grabbed the portable radio he used to check the weather forecast. The thing was second hand and had limited reception. He’d bought it off his father before leaving for his third year at Backupsmore, needing something to combat Fiddleford’s penchant for playing bluegrass every two hours.

Fiddling with the dial, he listened to it pop and crackle as it searched for a signal. At first he picked up the state transportation weather forecast and road conditions channel, followed by a country/western station, and National Public Radio. The FM bandwidth had a better variety than the AM one, which had one station dedicated to big band, jazz, and crooner music, two local pop/rock stations, and another western music station that specialized in singing cowboys music from the 40s through to the 60s. Ford refused to listen to any of it. He grabbed some tools and supplies from the basement lab and fiddled with internal receivers, hoping to extend their range. Forty-five minutes later he had another four FM stations to choose from, though only two came in strong.

“Good evening everyone, it’s eight o’clock and you know what that means. Bedtime Stories with Nick Nightly! So, bundle all your youngins up and tuck them in tight. Tonight we’ll continue with the classic, _Treasure Island_ by Robert Louis Stephenson. This tale is for old and young alike, so settle in and we’ll start chapter five right after a word from our sponsors.”

Ford stepped back from the radio as a jingle for a car lot started. _Bedtime stories, what an interesting idea for a radio show,_ he thought. He hadn’t read _Treasure Island_ since he was a boy, since before-. No, he wouldn’t think about Stanley and he taking turns reading it aloud. The two of them nestled up against the wall, sitting on the lower bunk, flashlight in hand. Just one more chapter before bed. Just one more…

A dull longing ache thudded in his chest, not as bitter as he’d feared. Like all his other memories of Stanley, the anger of betrayal bled in around the edges, but _Treasure Island_ had been a favorite of his, theirs, he couldn’t help the flicker of a smile.

He almost turned the dial, then changed his mind. Being read to was better than what passed as popular music. Taking up his sponge, he went back to the cupboards as the commercials finished and Nick Nightly returned to the airwaves.

“Welcome back to Bedtime Stories with Nick Nightly. When last we left Jim Hawkins, he’d told his mother all about Billy Bones’ piracy. They try to get help against the pirates in town, but everyone is too afraid. So back home they go, finding Billy exactly as they left him. Around his neck they find a key, which opens his sea chest. In it they find not gold, as Jim’s mother had hoped, but trinkets, odd coins, clothes, and papers. Jim takes the papers and together the two make it outside just as the pirates arrive.

“Now, Chapter Five: The Last of the Blind Man…”

There was something oddly comforting nostalgic about Nick’s voice. First, he modulated it when reading, Jim’s narration coming of light, with the eagerness of a young man, the Blind Man’s dialogue gruff and accented, but none of it jarring to listeners. Second, his enthusiasm for the story was apparent in how he spoke. Nick knew when to soften his tone to draw the listener into the tale or ramp up the excitement at the suspenseful parts. It was enough that Ford could picture this unknown man speaking to a huddled group of children around a campfire, gesticulating to animate the characters’ actions. Thirdly, it was familiar. He couldn’t say where from because there was no discernible accent in Nick’s voice, but there was something about the timber that reminded him of someone. Probably from college, someone he’d had a class with, though more likely someone in his dorm or the engineering club whom he’d seen and heard enough that their voice was memorable when heard. Unfortunately, he couldn’t picture a face to go with it.

When the Bedtime Story segment was over, Nick said good night to the children and told his Sunshine he loved her and switched over to playing some Doo-wap oldies songs for about thirty minutes. Ford almost turned the channel, but Nick had hinted that there was more to the show than met the eye and he was intrigued enough to leave it on as he finally began his search for a guest room.

At nine o’clock, spooky intro music began to play and Ford discovered the other side to Nick Nightly’s show. Tall tales of the unknown, ghost stories, people calling in to talk about their Big Foot and alien sightings. Some poor woman complained about cookies disappearing off the rack anytime she left the window open then hearing giggling voices outside. When she got out there, only her garden gnomes were there, but she swore the number varied day to day. He was elated. Here was someone giving people a forum to talk about all the weird and wondrous anomalies there were! Where was his notepad? His journal? He needed to write these stories down, find out where these people were calling from. The cookie woman definitely had a gnome problem. Was she in Gravity Falls?

Running back to his study, he snatched a legal pad from on top a pile of books, and quickly jotted down what he could remember from the first few callers. Then sat through the rest of Nick’s show scribbling down whatever anecdote or story he heard.

By the time Nick signed off at eleven o’clock, Ford still hadn’t picked out a room for Fiddleford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus a pattern is established. All "chapters" will have an over all theme split between the brothers' point of view, which I'm splitting into smaller chapters here. In my original document that's not the case, but I thought I'd break things up for easier reading. (And to pad things out while I edit the first couple chapters of the follow up story as fast as I can.)


	3. A Friendly Face: Stan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is suicide ideation and a suicide attempt in this chapter. If this subject makes you uncomfortable, please feel free to skip the bulk of this chapter until the last quarter. That part has warm fuzzies and the promise of pie.

### August 19, 1973

The weather was blistering warm and the humidity clung to Stan with a salty presence he hadn’t felt in three years. Three years; had it really been three years since he’d last been in New Jersey? He dragged a hand down his face and stared at the bridge in front of him. The sun setting behind him painted the drab green steel in a sickly red wash, making Stan feel more ill than his stomach already was. What was he doing here?

Beyond the bridge and through the trees was Glass Shard Beach, his home or it had been once. All he had to do was cross the bridge.

Sitting in his car on the side of the road in a dirt patch that the local teenagers parked in, Stan willed himself to move. It didn’t work. Images of he and Carla McCorkle parked in this spot played out in front of him, a memory of happier times. They’d laugh, she’d talk him into swimming in the creek, the one that wound through the south end of town and out to the Atlantic. All the teenagers did that in the summer. Except Ford. Ford didn’t go, didn’t want to socialize with people who only looked on when Crampelter and his goons harassed him. Stan said they weren’t all bad and most were just too scared to put up a fight. Ford had better things to do like reread his astronomy book.

He should’ve realized their relationship was on the rocks then. They were brothers, best friends, so why had it all gone wrong? When was the question, because, really, if he was being honest with himself, it’d been coming a while. Maybe a year, maybe two by the time of the science fair. Why couldn’t he have seen it then? Why was he so wrapped up in them sailing off together to conquer the world? Ford never had wanted to sail had he? He’d just been humoring Stan those last couple of years. After all, what was he truly good at? Pops was right, he had just been riding on Ford’s coattails, on his achievements, but Ford had let him copy his homework and tests, so what did that say about him?

The bridge loomed in front of him, the shadows growing longer and blending together as he sat with the engine off, daring himself to turn the key and just drive over it already. He wanted to see Ma, to see Ford, and to see Shermie, Ruth, and little Jacob if they were still there. Was Shermie even still in the Army? Stan didn’t know. His sporadic phone calls with Ma never left time for more than a few minutes talk. He never had the amount of money for a proper long distance phone call. Pay phones charged an arm and a leg for anything outside of local. 

Why couldn’t he turn the damn key?

He was a failure. He didn’t have the millions of dollars Pops told him were his ticket back into the family. There was what? Twenty-two dollars and some change in his wallet? Oh, that was big money, so impressive they’d for sure welcome him back with open arms. All would be forgiven and Ford and he would be friends again. Stan’s jaw trembled, his breath hitching. This was a horrible idea. He needed to turn right around and head back up to New York and try the underground boxing gig again. There was still decent money in it and he hadn’t burned any bridges, figuratively or literally, when he left. Not like in Pennsylvania. He was fairly certain if they caught him there, he’d be tarred and feathered.

He got out of the car. The fresh air would help clear his head. 

Beside him on the road, a few cars drove past. This was not the main route out of town, so he wasn’t surprised by the low amount of traffic. Especially taking in the time of day. People were already at home, finishing up their suppers, maybe treating themselves to an ice cream or popscicle along the boardwalk before turning in for the night. The teenagers wouldn’t be swimming in the creek now, too dark. Stan walked to the bridge. Stepping onto it, he kept to the far right where a pedestrian walkway had been installed. He reached into his coat pocket, searching for his pack of cigarettes, knowing there were at least one or two left. It wasn’t there. It had to be in the car, but he didn’t turn to go back for it. Instead, he moved to the middle of the bridge as a truck drove past.

The creek was low in its banks. During the spring it was filled to halfway up the bank and people were warned away from it. Now, in the downward slope of summer, it was a shadow of its former self. A bit like me, Stan thought with a bitter laugh. Was I ever even full to begin with?

He stared at it, his mind drawing blank, his thoughts settling on how quiet everything was. There was only the burble of water and the odd car driving by with its headlights on. The sun nearly gone; the darkness taking over. Would anyone even care if he showed up now? Would they welcome him back?

Stan knew the answer. Ma, yes. Pops and Ford, no. God, he’d screwed Ford out of something great. Hadn’t he spent years telling Ford how exceptional he was, that he shouldn’t let naysayers bring him down? And the one time, finally, finally, the principal and some fancy school took notice, he messed it up. He fucked up so bad he couldn’t bring himself to tell Ford the truth. Because the truth was complicated, even if everyone else would think it easy. He went in and broke the machine, that’s all they needed to know. It’d been an accident, but he hadn’t told anyone and he should have. He should have! But he didn’t. He’d been a coward and afraid of his future, that Ford was leaving without him, that no one saw him as anything but a lump. A shadow to Ford’s genius. He was nothing without Ford and it scared him so badly, but he was so proud of his twin. He truly hadn’t meant or wanted to hurt him. Stupid. He’d been so stupid.

It was black below him. A gulf. A hole of nothingness. Stan grabbed a strut and hoisted himself over the railing. He sat down and nothing stared back. He was nothing. He had no special talent, no big brain to change the world. Ford was going places. He’d still gotten into college. Where had Stan gotten to? Banned in three states, broken his nose twice in less than legal boxing matches, been mugged four times in the same week, spent his nineteenth birthday in jail. A watery laugh burbled up, spilling out of his mouth and tumbling down into the dark waters beneath him.

Headlights flashed. Another car came and went. It didn’t stop. They never did and they never would. Not for him. Never for him. The world wouldn’t stop for Stanley Pines, but it would stop for Stanford when he finally took it by the horns and made it listen to him. It was only a matter of time now.

Another set of headlights, another car going past.

Stan tried to steady his breathing, but the sobs wouldn’t stop. He wanted to scream, to say something, but he had nothing to say. Nothing would undo the damage he’d caused. Instead he wondered how far down it was and how much water the creek held.

Another set of headlights. They trained on his car, slowing, slowing, stopping. The crunch of tires barely registered in his mind. Neither did the footsteps walking toward him and onto the bridge. His attention was on the dark nothing below him and pondering how much water he could take into his lungs.

“Stanley?”

There was a light on him, from the car that had stopped. A young woman stood there. He couldn’t make out her face, but her voice was familiar. Another wound on his heart.

“Oh...Oh...Oh, my G-. Stan, it’s me, Carla McCorkle.” Carla said, her voice shaking at first, but soft in the way one got when they were trying not to frighten a wounded animal. He almost had enough energy to hate it. Almost.

“Hey,” he replied. It was quiet, forlorn. He glanced back out over the water.

“Hey yourself.” She paused then moved a bit closer, her head turning slightly to look over the railing then back to him. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“I heard what happened between you and your family. Your brother, he…” Carla paused, frowning, her eyes darting between and the darkness beyond the bridge. “I want to hear your side of things. I only heard the gossip. Please. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” he said, not sure why he was speaking. But she had stopped and she was asking. No one had done so since, Lead Foot Abby in Kentucky. Sweet old lady, fed him brisket and potatoes while she helped him fix his car. Taught him how to evade the cops like they were still in Prohibition. Maybe that was it, maybe she...cared? Though that couldn’t be right.

“There has to be,” Carla said, finally closing the distance between them. She was close, but didn’t touch him, only waited expectantly, hopefully for him to speak. “Every story has more than one side.”

“There isn’t, whatever you heard, it happened.” His words sounded false, even to his own ears, so he rushed on, trying to make her see she was wasting her time. “I’m a delinquent, a criminal. I fucked up so bad. I didn’t mean to, but I did. Dumb, oaffish, Stanley. Jealousy finally got the better of me and I cowardly destroyed the one thing Ford cared about, ruining his chances to go to the best school in the country; the world.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said firmly, but with the same softness as before. “You were always proud of him. You tried to pull him out of his books, and, okay, you were a bit jealous of all the attention he got, but you’d never hurt him on purpose.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s all done. I don’t know why I bothered coming back, they’ll never forgive me. Not without a million dollars. But I’ll never get that, I’m not smart or anything. I’m worth less than the shoes I’m wearing.” He choked on the words as if they were cutting his throat, the tears kept coming, worse than the night he’d been thrown to the wind. Such a pathetic loser. And to have Carla of all people see him like this. Now his trip to the bottom rung of life was complete, except one final thing. 

All he needed to do was shift his weight and he’d fall. 

“They can go to the moon, Stan.”

She said it with so much conviction, it startled him. Firm, sure hands wound their way around his right arm until Carla held it in a bear hug. She wasn’t letting go. Despite the backlight and harsh shadows, he could practically see the fierceness in her features.

“Every last one of them. To the moon.”

He didn’t understand why she was saying it, why she was holding him. They’d broken up three years ago. He’d driven her new beau’s van into a ditch after hot wiring the thing! She’d given him the cold shoulder for months. There was no reason for her to be holding him like this, to be saying these words. It made no sense!

“I’m sorry you had to go through this alone Stan. That they’ve brought you to this. It isn’t right,” she said, a note of desperation finally appearing in her voice. “I’m sorry we broke up. You were right. Thistle was all flash and no substance. A pretty face with a wandering heart. Please, can you come back to this side of the railing? I don’t want to lose a friend.”

A friend. She wanted to be his friend?

“W-why?” he croaked out. “I’m nobody.”

“You’re someone! You’re Stanley Pines. The guy who punched out a purse snatcher when he was barely fourteen. Who made me laugh, who climbed a flippin’ trellis into my room like he was Robin Hood.”

“I’m a grifter. A bum. That’s what I am.”

She shook her head, her whole body trembling as she held fast to him. “You don’t have to be anymore. I can help, I want to help, but first you have to come stand next to me.”

Stan stared at her, mystified and unsure, then slowly, carefully turned. Carla moved with him as he did until he swung one leg over the railing then the other. The whole time she refused to let go and even when he was safe, she didn’t until they got off the bridge and to her car.

The BW bug was tiny and cramped, but she ushered him inside. There they sat as she dug out a box of tissue from under one seat. Handing it to him, she spoke. 

“There’s this diner in Turnbuckle that has great blackberry pie. You do still like blackberry pie?”

“Yeah,” he said, wiping his face with the tissue, scrunching the damp one up and grabbing another.

“Is your car going to be okay here for a couple hours?”

He shifted, reaching into his jeans pockets for his keys and handing them to her. “It will be if you lock it.”

Carla took the keys and hopped out, locked up and returned.

“So, blackberry pie and coffee?” she asked, reaching over and giving his hand a small reassuring squeeze.

“I haven’t bathed in a week or changed in nearly that long,” Stan warned.

“Oh,” Carla laughed, “I lived in a hippie commune for six months. Believe me, I’ve smelled far worse.” She started the engine and made a U-turn away from the bridge and headed to Turnbuckle. Blackberry pie sounded wonderful.

The next day Stan returned for his car. He never made it over the bridge. Instead, he waited in Turnbuckle for Carla to finish gathering her things from her parents place before the two of them headed west in hopes of a new beginning.


	4. A Friendly Face: Ford

### September 28, 1970

After nearly a month at Backupsmore University, Ford was feeling no better about the school than he had when he’d gotten the full ride scholarship notice back in May. He wanted to be at West Coast Tech. It had cutting edge labs, five rooms showcasing their five computers,( three of which undergraduates could use!), a robotics department whose prototypes were being implemented in factories, and so much more that he ached to be there. But he wasn’t. He was here, at Backupsmore, waiting for test results so the school could authorize his placement in sophomore and junior classes. He wasn’t going to be stuck doing freshmen general course nonsense if he could help it.

As soon as he’d arrived, he’d put in for testing out of all unnecessary freshman courses to his degree. Why bother with basic calculus when he’d taught it to himself two years ago? He was certain he was far above his peers in math and science and would be tested out of those easily. The only sticking points were his English and history courses, but he was certain he could at least get out history. English would be more difficult. For some reason schools seemed to think it important for him to know the works of Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Shakespeare, or other great dead writers that didn’t impact him. Who had time for unnecessary reading?

Stanford Pines had a plan and these extra classes were a waste of his valuable time.

“Whoa there Stanford,” a deep, laughing voice said. “Don’t scowl so hard, smoke will come out your ears.”

Ford turned away from his desk and fixed his roommate, Lawrence Peabody, with an unamused frown worthy of his father. The junior was tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair, was an aerospace engineering student, and reminded him too much of Stanley. _If Stanley applied himself to anything other than having a good time and ruining my life_ , Ford thought acidly.

“I’m waiting for my advisor to call me with the results of my exams,” he said.

Lawrence returned the scowl for a moment, before his cheerful mannerisms resurfaced. “It’s admirable that you want to fast track yourself a PhD, but you need to relax. My roommate first year, he tested out of all the freshman general science classes, skipped right to organic and molecular chemistry, junior level horticulture classes, and such. Burned himself out by the end of the year and flunked out. I’d hate to see that happen to you.”

“It won’t,” Ford stated.

His roommate gave him a skeptical look. “Take the history classes at least, you can zone out or get some other reading done in them. They’re low key and you’ll thank me later when you come back next year.”

He did have a point, Ford conceded. He could get some independent reading done without cutting into another class’ lecture time. Well, no necessary class’ lecture time at least.

“I’ll take it under advisement, though I may not have a choice depending on the results.”

“Good,” Lawrence said, coming over. “Now, how about you come with me for a bit? The E.T. is having their welcome and introduction party.”

“The E.T.?”

“Engineers of Tomorrow. The engineering club I’m part of. Sheesh, weren’t you listening the other night? I told you about them since you’re interested in nuclear physics and we have some nuclear engineers in the club.”

Ford took a moment to consider. It was already past five o’clock, so the likelihood of his advisor calling now was small. Any phone call about test scores and being able to drop or sign up for classes would have to wait until tomorrow.

“It wouldn’t hurt to meet them,” he said after a moment.

Lawrence beamed and gave his shoulder a light punch, just like Stanley used too. “Great! There’s all sorts of engineers in the club. I’m sure you’ll find some people to hang out with besides me!” He laughed. “Not that I mind you around, but it’s always good to have friends.”

He was slightly dubious. His track record with making friends was dismal. Though, Ford reasoned, there might be at least one or two people there that shared his level of intelligence. With this in mind, he pulled on his new sweater vest over his button up shirt. He’d bought it before moving out of Glass Shard Beach hoping it gave him a professional aire. Smoothing the front, he missed Lawrence’s eye roll.

“It’s not formal, you don’t need a tie,” he said when Ford went to search for one.

“Okay.” Ford took a quick look in the mirror, dubbed himself presentable, and followed Lawrence out.

The Engineers of Tomorrow club met in the Pioneer Mechanics building. It was a converted airplane assembly plant from the first world war. The university had been gifted the land shortly after the Stockmarket crash, though Ford wasn’t sure why anyone had built a plant so close to a large school. Lawrence told him that Backupsmore hadn’t been more than a small college at the time and had been struggling up until the donation. He rambled more about it, but Ford tuned him out as they entered the wooden structure, memorizing the route back to the entrance in case he needed it instead.

The building was divided into two main sections, the old offices, which were now classrooms, and the assembly area, which was where all the laboratories were held. The E.T. party was being held in the club’s designated lab space at the far end. When they entered, Ford couldn’t help but stare at the room. It was like a mechanic’s garage. There were engines hanging from pulleys, tables strewn with machines of varying shapes and functions, what looked to be a robotic arm attached to masses of cords and hooked to a battery array. Any anxiety or doubt he had about coming was gone, wiped away by the sheer amount of open experimentation he saw amongst the small throng of people moving from project to project.

“Hey! Pete!” Lawrence shouted, waving his hand in the air.

A young man with red hair jumped up and down within the crowd, spotting them then waving wildly back.

“Larry! You made it! We’re just starting the tour. Johnson’s showing off what he was doing over the summer.”

“Can’t wait to see.”

“Larry!” several other people shouted. Suddenly the group broke open and six men and one woman started waving and calling to Lawrence. Ford clenched his hands into fists and stuck them in his pockets. Soon enough they were surrounded by the others, Lawrence talking and introducing him to the other club members. He couldn’t remember all the names. They whipped by so fast and before he knew it, he was being ushered into the remaining people. Johnson grinned and launched back into his lecture on lemons and their usage as an alternative to modern batteries.

For the first time since arriving at Backupsmore, Ford thought maybe it wasn’t a terrible fate. It could be bearable, maybe even slightly comparable to West Coast Tech. Ever so slightly.

The older members showed off their projects one by one, then the group broke up, people milling about as refreshments finally arrived. Pizza, chips, and soda. Ford snatched a Pitt Cola and wandered about, a list of questions running in his mind, with more being added every moment. 

“You have a computer?”

The question was asked by someone to his right. A thin sandy haired man about his age in a floral print shirt with a banjo, of all things, slung across his back, looked excitedly at Pete.

“We sure do! It’s not state of the art, takes up the entire room, but we’ve been green-lit to modify it and such as long as we document everything. The department just got a federal grant last year for the new one the graduate students use,” Pete said.

Banjo man grinned. “Can I see it? Computer technology is goin’ ta change the world.”

“Of course.” Pete spotted Ford watching them and waved him over. “Hi Larry’s roommate. I see you over there. You want to see the computer too?”

“Yes,” Ford replied, unable to keep himself following whether invited or not. “And it’s Stanford.”

“Right. Sorry, I’ll get your name. It just takes me a while,” Pete said.

“Hi, I’m Fiddleford McGucket,” Banjo man said, holding out his hand.

“Stanford Pines.” Ford nodded, keeping one hand in his pocket and the other on his drink. 

Fiddleford frowned slightly before the smile returning to his face. “Yah know, in Tennessee, if a man don’t shake hands with another man at introductions, they’re said ta be rude.”

“Oh, I...ah,” Ford stammered. He pulled his hand from his pocket, and, keeping his fingers tucked in, pressed his hand into Fiddleford’s palm, letting his fingers curl over his knuckles. Then he ‘shook’ hands, as it were before hastily tucking his hand away. Fiddleford gave him an odd look and Pete just shook his head.

“That how they do it in New Jersey now?” Pete asked.

“How do you know I’m from New Jersey?” Ford snapped.

“The accent. I used to live there, but my family moved to Minnisota when I was fourteen. I had a heck of a time losing my accent. It still comes out when I’m stressed or angry.”

Embarrassed, Ford tried to figure out a way to explain his actions. His polytactyly had gotten him ostracized for most of his life, he didn’t want it to again, but short of cutting his extra digits off there was nothing he could do. So he’d spent some time devising diversions. This was the solution he’d created if handshakes were necessary, but he’d been called out. Stanley could’ve deflected their attention easily, but Stanley wasn’t here. Ford drew a breath, steeling himself. Stanley would never be here, it was time to step out from behind his brother’s shadow.

Fiddleford was still looking at him expectantly. Pulling his hand out again, Ford took Fiddleford’s firmly in his grip and shook it properly.

“There we go. Now that’s a handshake.”

Inwardly Ford congratulated himself. _They didn’t notice_ , he thought pleased with the victory. Pete shrugged and lead the two underclassmen to the computer room. 

The computer took up the entirety of the room. Ford had never seen one in real life; only universities, research centers, and big businesses had them. Dinky towns with little to do except sap money from tourists seven months out of the year wouldn’t have anyone who could afford one. He was gawking, he knew he was, and he didn’t care.

“Whew-wee!” Fiddleford said, spinning around. “Ain’t she something!”

“Definitely.” Pete headed over to a control panel and began explaining how it worked. For the next fifteen minutes he talked and answered their questions. Fiddleford had the most and it eventually lead to a discussion on scale and miniaturization.

“Imagine, if all this could fit into half or even a quarter the space. Think of the processin’ power a room with four computers would have,” Fiddleford gushed.

“Miniaturization is happening, but the technology hasn’t caught up with the idea yet,” Pete said. “Our best guess is that within the next decade we’ll have them down to that quarter size you were thinking.”

Fiddleford shook his head. “I bet we could get’em smaller in the same time. Say, desk size.”

“Whoa, whoa. Desk size in a decade? What part of the technology isn’t there yet didn’t you understand?”

“I understand plenty. I’ve been readin’ magazines an’ books on this an’ robotics an’ there’s got ta be a way ta push it forward.”

“There might be, at the development level, but the actual manufacturing level, that’s a different story.”

The two went back and forth while Ford slipped over and studied the machine. He had to take a computer science class. It was already on his list, but for his junior year, he’d have to rethink that. Abruptly they were interrupted by Lawrence who told Pete his girlfriend was here. Pete grinned and practically threw the other two out of the room, locking it behind them.

“Well, that was a tad rude. We were talkin’” Fiddleford said.

“Yes, well, priorities,” Ford replied, sour at the abrupt end to what was turning into an enjoyable moment.

The other man laughed. “I guess so.” They stood surveying the other projects, silence spreading between them. “You interested in robotics at all?”

“Frankly, I’m interested in most of what I’ve seen here.”

“Same, though I’m wonderin’ how many lemons it’d take ta power a jet engine.”

“Depends on how much output the engine has relative to lemons. Though, the sheer number needed would be unfeasible.”

“I bet if we could increase the output coefficient of the engine-”

“That would work…” He chewed the bottom of his lip thoughtfully, the numbers sliding into place as if his brain was a slide rule. 

“Ya interested in teamin’ up on this thought experiment?” Fiddleford asked, an inquisitive look on his face.

“I spotted a blackboard behind the jet pack that was blank,” Ford replied.

“Perfect!” 

They made a beeline in the direction and as they began running and arguing over equations Ford thought that he may have made a friend. The first, all on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild Fiddleford has appeared! Quick Ford, catch his friendship!


	5. One Phone Call: Stan

### November 1973

College kids were disasters. Uncouth, heathens whole delighted in making Stan’s day an endless parade of rude words, snickers hidden behind hands, messes that could easily be avoided if they simply put garbage in the trash bins, and flush the toilet for heaven’s sake! It was like being back in high school, although with more open drinking. Carla kept saying it was mostly the freshmen that acted this way, that they mellowed by senior year or dropped out. Stan wasn’t sure he believed her.

Quentin College was small, private, and the only place of higher learning serving Oregon’s population of Roadkill and Ista counties. There’d been talk of the counties merging due to Itsa’s small size, but it hadn’t happened yet. The college had been established in the 1880s by a Conner Q. Smith, who swore he’d been a member of the Supreme Court as an infant. The claim made no sense, but was part of college lore, along with a treasure trove of rare currency. No one was sure where it was, but every year some students formed a search party and went digging in the hills outside of town. Stan had been warned not to participate as it only “encouraged them”. Carla laughed it off, saying it was tradition and to stop listening to the fuddy duddies.

The problem was those fuddy duddies were the ones paying his wage. Janitorial work was tough, thankless, but necessary and Stan was grateful to have a job at all with his background. Though, for once he was using his legal name.

“It’s not a bad school,” Carla said, opening a can of diced tomatoes and pouring it into a casserole dish. “It wasn’t my first or even third choice, but after the whole hippie commune fiasco, I was stranded out here.”

“So you’ve said.” Stan chopped onions into chunks to add in. “I never figured you’d follow Thistle across the country. Date the loon for a while before he dumped you for some other groupie, sure.”

She slapped his arm. “Hey!”

He had the decency to look chagrined.

“Well, Thistle talked up the hippie lifestyle and, you know me, wild child.” Carla took a can of whole corn kernels and added it to the tomatoes. “It was still stupid. But I was here and figured why not apply? I’m surprised my parents agreed to pay the tuition.”

“Yeah,” he replied, bumping her arm with his. She gave him a smile.

They were managing. It was hard; finding a way to live together, being friends, supporting each other in a way that Stan hadn’t felt he’d ever had. They weren’t dating, that was off the table for now. He’d taken the janitorial job and she’d picked up a part-time one at a sandwich shop on campus. Their days consisted of him getting up to find her already off to an early morning class, then he’d go in. Eight and a half hours later he’d come home and she’d either already be there studying or at her job and he’d make his own dinner.

Their apartment wasn’t big, but it had two small bedrooms so they each had their own space and it was within walking distance of the college. Overall, it was the best place he’d been in three years.

“When is the exam?” she asked.

She’d talked him into getting his GED, which he’d shied away from the first month they were in Oregon, but had reconsidered since.

“The next one is in December, so I’ve got a little time.”

“You’ll pass.”

“I barely passed most of my classes in highschool. Ford kept me from flunking.”

Carla turned the can opener on a can of black beans, a hard look in her eyes. “You can and will do this. I know you will. You don’t need him.”

The ‘you don’t need any of them,’ was left unspoken. Stan knew Carla’s feelings about his family. That night on the bridge was still fresh for both of them. There’d been nights she’d found him curled in a ball crying into his pillow. It wasn’t something he ever wanted her to see, but she did and she didn’t say a word, only sat with him and stroked his hair as he broke down. He wished he could stop, but the pain was still there, the wounds had never healed, but covered over by his bravado for years. Though now, she was helping him suture them closed.

“You’re stronger than you realize,” she added. “I believe you can pass.”

He bumped her arm playfully again. “Thanks.”

His life was one big puzzle that’d been dumped on the floor. Slowly he was finding the pieces, picking them up from where they’d fallen under the table and chairs. He was afraid he’d never fit them back together, but here he was, with Carla’s help, laying down edge pieces. He still longed for Ford and his surety that no matter how often the puzzle was jumbled, he’d help sort it out. Ford had left the room three years ago and wasn’t coming back anytime soon. So, Stan would organize pieces by color, while Carla matched them up to the edge, quietly filling it in without him.

“You need to find yourself first and not chase what they thought you should be,” Carla said one evening when she caught Stan gazing at an old photo of Ford and him mournfully. She didn’t crumple it, didn’t take it away, but rested a reassuring hand on his arm. “When you’ve found that, then maybe…” She said it to comfort him, because she didn’t believe it, but he needed to believe. He was grateful for that.

He added the onions to the dish then pulled out the chicken breasts, cubed them and tossed them in as she added the black beans. They tossed it into the oven then cleaned up as it cooked. Carla worked on a research paper for one of her classes while Stan got out a workbook he’d picked up from the library about the Oregon General Education Degree test, so he could review.

Their dinner was interrupted by a phone call. Carla answered it.

“Hello? Oh, yes he’s right here.” She held the phone out. “It’s for you.”

Getting up, he took the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi Stanley, this is Elmer Dunst, I was hoping you could cover my Saturday evening shift at the Communications building.”

“Sure, I’m free and I could use the extra hours,” he said.

“Perfect. I’ll switch it on the board tomorrow. Thank you Stanley.”

He hung up. “Looks like I’m working Saturday.”

“Yay, I get the place to myself. I’ll paint my nails fuschia, turn on some sitcoms, or listen to the Fab Four…”

Stan whacked her with a throw pillow from the couch. “No fuschia nails for you!”

“But it’s my color!” she whined playfully before falling into giggles.

*

Saturday started out cold and crisp, but warmed as the day went on. By the time Stan headed in for work, he was wondering if the coat he was wearing was too much. It’d be cold by the time he got off, though. Unzipping it helped, as did the cool breeze. He was glad this wasn’t Wisconsin where the wind is more painful than pleasant on days like this.

The Communications building was four stories above ground and one below. A large radio antenna stuck out of the red brick building’s roof. Below it was rooms belonging to the student radio station. Elmer had warned him yesterday the student DJs could be a handful, especially the weekend guys. He should be prepared for silly string attacks.

Checking that his keys were in the pocket of his coveralls, Stan entered the building and headed to the maintenance closet on the first floor. Hanging his coat up inside, he found everything as it should be and grabbed toilet paper, cleaning supplies, and garbage bags for his cart. Then the real work began. It should only take a few hours to check the whole building, but if he found any large messes, it could take longer. He worked bottom to top, knowing that there were people in the radio station and choosing not to disturb them.

Stan would be lying if he didn’t find radio production a little interesting. If nothing else, he’d like to know how it all worked. He’d been like that as a kid, watching B sci-fi movies. How did they get that ant to look gigantic? What was the trick for making a person appear to hold their severed head under their arm? His father blew him off and Ford always said mirrors and forced perspective, so he’d kept it to himself and stopped asking. Besides, they were parlor tricks compared to the scientific marvels Ford told him about. Still, he wouldn’t mind pulling back the curtain on the human side of the speaker.

The station rooms weren’t as busy as he assumed. There was one student sitting at a desk, reading through the local newspaper when he entered the small foyer leading to the rest of the station.

“You’re not Elmer,” he said, letting it fall to the desk.

“No, he’s taking the weekend off. I’m covering for him tonight. I’m Stan.”

“Rufus Blackwood. I’m the assistant student programing director.”

“Charmed. So, I’ll just get to it.”

“You’ll have to wait until Fred’s on a commercial break to get into the booth for that trash bin. Sorry.” 

“That’s all right. I’ll start with the others.” 

The station comprised of four rooms, much smaller than he expected, but this was only for the broadcasting portion, Rufus explained. One room was filled with recorded reels from past shows, another held boxes of vinyl records, labeled by genre. The final two were the booth where the hosts and DJs broadcast from, and the control room where sound quality was checked. They also took callers there before transferring them to the DJs.

Stan could see Fred through the glass, a record on one turntable, another in his hand and the large microphone he spoke into.

“Wow, never been inside a studio before,” he said quietly. The man at the soundboard chuckled.

“This is where the magic is. Greg Harper.”

“Stanley Pines. I’m subbing for Elmer.”

Greg offered him a hand and Stan shook it. “You just starting your shift?”

“Nah, this is my last stop before I start mopping the halls.”

Greg nodded and turned his attention back to Fred. “Rufus is running things tonight, so there won’t be any usual shenanigans. He confiscated Pierce and Trap’s silly string earlier.”

“Me and my mop thank him.” He made to leave, but Greg caught him, telling him they were about to cut to commercial. Fred started the reel and Greg signaled him to open the door. The DJ made eye contact with Greg then Stan before tugging the bin into the open and hurriedly rolling his chair to the door with it on his lap.

“Here,” he said, passing it out to Stan, who hastily took it and changed out the bags before passing it back. 

Stan left soon afterward, the studio clean as he could make it with people still roaming about. He returned to the supply closet, hauling the full garbage bags outside to the dumpster before he did, and returning some of his supplies and picking up new ones. The hallways needed to be mopped, which took another hour and a half. By the time he was done and locking up the supply room, he heard someone coming down the hall.

“Oh, hey,” called Greg. “You done?”

“Yeah, I was going to head back to the shop to clock out.”

“Have you eaten anything yet? I’m going to grab pizza for the crew. You can come upstairs and enjoy a few slices with us. Elmer sometimes does.”

He almost declined, but Greg seemed, Stan didn’t know, genuine? Yes, that seemed right. Genuine. He hadn’t run into anyone like that in, what? Three, four years? And Stan prided himself on ability to read people. 

“Sure, why not. You picking up from Alfie’s?”

“It’s the best pizza in town,” Greg replied, smiling.

“I’ll meet you there in fifteen.”

“Just enough time for me to place the order and maybe they’ll have it done.”

They walked out together, Greg asking him about toppings, then what music he liked. Stan told him how he and Carla used to frequent a 50s themed dance joint. Greg mentioned that he’d tried being a rock star for about two years with a couple of his friends before giving up and going solo for a year. His manager had ditched him in Klamath Falls and he’d ended up bumming it north to Dreary. Stan could sympathize.

“So you’re not a student?” he asked.

“Part-time,” Greg replied, shivering in the night air. “I know a lot about recording music. I picked it up when I was making my album. My aunt is subsidizing my studies. My uncle was on the board here for a few years before he passed away.”

“Ah, the ol’ who-you-know schtick.”

“Yeah, but, I didn’t appreciate my education when I was in college the first time. Left after a year. Me, Dean, and Charlie thought we had a stab at being the next Beatles. We knew better and would show them all. Heh, it sounds stupid now with all I went through, but it made me appreciate my second chance.”

Stan blew out a breath and watched the pale traces of it dissipate under the streetlight. “I get you. Dropped out of high school and tried to strike it rich on my own. I think I’m getting it. Having that piece of paper, well... it’s more than just paper.”

“Yeah. These young whipper-snappers don’t know how good they’ve got it,” Greg teased, shaking a pretend cane. Stan laughed.

They walked to the custodial offices, only realizing once they arrived that Greg should’ve been on his way to Alfie’s not here. He laughed and waited for Stan to change out of his coveralls and lock up.

“Hey, Greg,” Stan said as they walked west across campus to the pizzeria.

“Yeah?”

“How does it all work?”

“The sound board?”

“No. Yes. I don’t have the foggiest what you do or anything about radio.”

“You’re in luck because I happen to know everything about radio and music,” Greg replied with a wink. 

Stan chuckled. “A real know-it-all, eh?”

“You call me a Poindexter, and my has-been rock star ego will require us to duel, with guitars.”

Stan howled with laughter for five minutes straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My limited understanding of student radio comes from the one trip to the student run radio station in college. It is a vague nebulous experience at this point. It was late night and the group of friends I was with were stopping to say hi to another friend who I didn't know and never spoke to again. But I remember the tiny booth with five or six of us crammed in it when we weren't supposed to be.


	6. One Phone Call: Ford

### May 4, 1974

Fiddleford was graduating and getting married in two weeks. Actually, the graduation was in a month, so the honeymoon was to be delayed until after. Ford couldn’t wrap his head around it. Fiddleford and marriage had seemed so far away when they’d announced the engagement. Now it was nearly here. Why they were rushing it, Ford couldn’t say, but he secretly wished they weren’t. It’d give him more time to come to terms with it.

He and Fiddleford hadn’t been sharing a dorm or an apartment since winter semester, but there’d always been a part of him that secretly hoped they could again. Emma May though, there was no way she would live with him. It wasn’t that she disliked Ford, but Emma May wasn’t interested in sharing a house with him and his library’s worth of books. He supposed she had a point after the bathroom catastrophes when she’d first started coming over. Fiddleford had apologized profusely, especially after the second one with the slime mold experiment. It was a testament to how likable Fiddleford was that she hadn’t dumped him then. Ford had cut back on using the bathroom for experimentation and it’d been smooth sailing from then on. They’d gotten engaged in February, so it made sense they’d want to live together. Do a practice run before committing to a lifetime, and they couldn’t suss themselves out if Ford was being a third wheel. He could respect that, though he mourned the loss of his friend’s time and, well, attention.

They weren’t romantic, it wasn’t like that, but Fiddleford was his best friend and he didn’t have many friends in general. Lawrence had graduated and moved on two years ago. Pete switched to another university for grad school about the same time, and he’d never connected quite the same with the other members of the E.T. as he had with Fiddleford. So this marriage and graduation felt like a loss, something to be mourned instead of celebrated. It was hard to describe.

He loved his friend and wanted the best for him. Emma May was sweet, kind, and could talk about sediment, geological time, and erosion with the same enthusiasm Fiddleford did about transistors, robotics, and Advanced Hyper Mechanics. They were a great couple. At the same time, Ford felt he was being left behind even with such a bright future ahead, a destiny yet to fulfill. But just as he’d reached the crest of this mountain, the next on the horizon, he was losing his trusted companion, again. 

Ford needed to get some sleep. He was beginning to think in prose again. He hadn’t taken an English class in years, but still, the books he’d read in high school had left an impression.

His apartment was quiet and it was getting late. Fiddleford wanted him to be Best Man at his wedding, an honor indeed, and Ford wanted the speech to be perfect. So here he sat, lost in his own thoughts at his kitchen table when the telephone rang.

He startled then rushed to the living room to grab it.

“Stanford, it’s Shermie,” his older brother said after Ford sputtered a hello.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, his heart leaping to his throat. Shermie rarely called him, it was usually Ma.

“Pops had a stroke,” he said. “Ma’s at the hospital with him.”

“Shit.” He sank to the couch next to the end table the telephone sat on. “Is he-”

“Alive, yes, but they don’t know what the damage is. Ma’s a mess. She said he just slumped over to one side and went down. She grabbed some aspirin because she’d heard something about it helping with heart attacks. Then she called for an ambulance. He recovered enough that he was talking and coherent by the time they arrived.”

“Holy Moses.” If his world wasn’t shaken up enough, this was like a fissure opening up to swallow him whole. “Is there someone back there, for Ma?”

“Aunt Lina is. She drove over from Trenton and is staying with her at the hospital.”

“Oh good, I can’t leave, my friend’s getting married in two weeks and I have finals, and...and…”

“Slow down, it’s okay. I can’t jump on a plane immediately and head back either. Right now everything is stable and Aunt Lina will keep us posted on it.” There was a long pause before he spoke again. “I hate to ask, but have you heard from Stanley?”

“No,” he said flatly, without the heat he normally had when asked about his twin. The shock of learning his father’s condition numbed it, leaving him with the realization the Stan should be notified. He was Filbrick’s son too.

“I didn’t think so. Ma used to hear from him now and again, but it’s been months apparently. It was a bit far fetched to think he’d reach out to you, I guess.”

“I suppose,” Ford replied. Months? She hadn’t heard from him in months. Worst case scenarios suddenly played in his mind. Stan dead in a ditch. Stan, buried under concrete in the basement of some building. Stan lying in the morgue unidentified. Then he remembered this was Stanley Pines they were talking about. He always landed on his feet. He was probably schmoozing someone and laughing it up, having a grand old time somewhere, like Las Vegas, rubbing elbows with celebrities and mafia alike. It made him shudder. Pops always said he was a worthless louse. Too shifty, with all the charm of a gangster working for Capone and none of the sense to let others do the dirty work.

“I’m sure he’s fine Shermie.”

“If he was fine, he’d have called her like he had been, not leave it for nine months. This is all Pops’ fault,” he laughed, though it held no trace of mirth. “I’m thinking angry thoughts about our father and he’s lying in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of him.”

“Stanley’s the one who ruined my chances-”

“He was a stupid seventeen year old. Trust me, we’ve all done stupid things, but Pops never threw us out on the street. Hell, I think he still has Stanley’s birth certificate and social security card. How the hell was he to get a job without that? Everyone asks for it these days!”

“Shermie, I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“No, no, you’re right. We’re just retreading old ground. Nothing changes.” He sighed heavily into the phone. “Look, just call Ma when you can. She’ll want to hear from you. And, hey, you know I’m proud of you.”

“What?” Ford asked, feeling like he’d just been struck by lightning on a clear day.

“You’re the first Pines to get a degree beyond high school. Or will be. A PhD too. That’s top of the line. I want you to know how proud I am and hope that you succeed in whatever you choose to do with it. You’re my brother and I want you to be happy. I know we weren’t close growing up, with the age gap, I just… I don’t know. Life’s too short and all that. I need to say it or I might not get the chance. ”

Stunned, Ford relaxed. Despite the reason behind the phone call, hearing Shermie praise him, brought back warm memories of playful noogies and smiles from his childhood. Though not as rare as Filbrick’s, Shermie’s praise was just as precious.

“I’m not dying anytime soon,” he said, then added. “Thank you. I appreciate your support. I know you’re doing a few college courses…”

“On Uncle Sam’s dime, but it’s going to be another few years before I earn my bachelors. I still have to put food on the table and help raise two kids. Not to mention we’re still planning on a third, but it hasn’t happened.”

“Good luck?” Ford wasn’t sure what to say to that last remark. He didn’t know what to think of the two nephews he already had! Jacob was four now, and Levi was one and a half. He guessed Shermie and Ruth wanted their kids closer than the seven year gap between him and Shermie.

“Thanks. Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear about this stuff. A little too much information. I just wanted to say it, in case… Anyway, I better go. The long distance rates and all.”

“I know,” Ford replied with a frown. There were things about living off campus he disliked; having to pay for utilities and phone service were some of them. “Good bye, Shermie. Let me know if you hear anything more.”

“I will,” he said. 

Once the line was dead, Ford set the receiver down and stared across the room to the blank wall on the far side. His father had a stroke. He knew people died, that no one lived forever, but there was a part of him that still believed his father wouldn’t die. Not until some far off nebulous time in the future, vaguely after he’d done the whole “marriage and children thing” like Shermie. Marriage, Fiddleford, the speech. No, the news of Filbrick’s stroke completely derailed any thoughts he’d had for his Best Man speech. 

Instead he sat and thought of other things. Most fleeting and melancholy, but Shermie’s confidence and pride in him swirled back again and again. Shermie was proud of him. He wanted him to succeed. Not to earn money or bring prestige to the family, but for himself. It was the first time he could remember someone saying that to him. Normally Pops wanted to know what his scholarship money was getting him, but it was Ford’s scholarship money, not his father’s. Are you studying? When do you graduate? Are you sure that degree will be worth it? I hear NASA pays well. You’re mother and I aren’t getting younger, we’d like to retire to Florida. He’d answered these questions so many times over the past four years that he was sick of it, but what could he do? This was his father and this was how he showed how important he thought Ford was. But Shermie’s words, they’d held a different sentiment, one that Ford drank up like a thirsty man in a desert. 

Now if he could only decide on what to do with his degree.

He didn’t want to end up like Pops, amounting to nothing more than owning a pawn shop and being frustrated with the world. His PhD in physics was only a starting point. From there doors would open for him. So many possibilities. It wasn’t just because Fiddleford was leaving that Ford felt adrift, it was his own inability to decide on a path.

He got up and walked into his bedroom. Sitting amongst the stacks of books, he glanced at the titles briefly before staring up at the two posters dominating the wall in front of him. Nikolai Tesla and Carl Sagen, his inspirations and idols over the last few years. They’d done so much. Tesla’s inventions and Sagen’s search for life in the universe, Ford wanted his journey to mirror theirs so people years from now would remember and look up to him too. But he needed a good start, something that wasn’t a copy or retread of ground they’d covered. He wasn’t going to live in anyones’ shadow again.

Rubbing his chin, he pondered. He could try proving perpetual motion could be obtained, but that sat heavy and sour in his stomach. Retreading ground, no that was out. He crossed his arms while he considered astro physics, but it seemed to be the hot topic of the day, so no room to truly shine especially with Sagen around. Though, he could work with Sagen. That would be exciting, but he didn’t want to disturb anything he was doing. No, it what Ford needed was a feild of study few were working in. Something that he could truly shine in.

He let his arms droop, resting them on his thighs, his hands rapidly drumming against them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Oh! Ford stopped dead and stared at his hands. Of course! Anomalies! Legendary creatures had to have some basis in reality or were real. Like the Jersey Devil he and Stanley had found as kids! Pops wouldn’t like it, not enough money in it for him, but it didn’t matter. Ford didn’t need Filbrick to like it. This was his life and, no matter what, he now knew he had Shermie in his corner. His older brother believed in him. Ford could see the way forward now and he’d make them all proud. Pops would recover from this, he was sure, and he’d live to see Ford receive a Nobel Peace Prize for his work. Yes, everything would be all right.


	7. Difference of Perspective: Stan

### November 1974

“Good show everyone,” Rufus said, as the small cast left the booth. “That went better than expected.”

“Your standards must be low,” Stan said with a chuckle. Rufus shook his head and walked back to the desk in the foyer to return to his work. He really could be a stick in the mud some days.

“For the record, these old radio plays are fun,” Lynn said. The blond sophomore slid her arm around Stan’s. “And you play a great hard boiled detective.” 

He gently removed her arm from his. “Thanks, but it’s all in the accent and the cadence. I’ve learned to imitate a bunch.”

“Don’t forget tone,” Trap added, inserting himself between the two. “How’s your wife Stan?”

“Still sick. She went into student health this afternoon.”

“You’re married?” Lynn frowned, not so subtly checking his left hand. There was the gold band Carla had placed on it three months ago.

They’d had a civil ceremony. Her mother had cried, her father hadn’t said more than, ‘you make my daughter cry, I’ll make you cry Pines’. It was the closest to a blessing he’d receive from Mr. McCorkle. Her sister and brother were a little kinder, but called every week for two months straight until Carla lit into them. It’d been blissfully sibling-meddling free for the last month.

“Yes, to the ballsiest woman I’ve ever met,” Trap said. “She tore into a department head last year when he tried to tell her she didn’t have the mental fortitude to go into psychology. In public.”

“Oh.” Lynn’s shoulders slumped.

Stan didn’t have time for Lynn’s obvious infatuation with him. He was married and no woman could tempt him away from Carla. Throwing his coat on, he headed to the front foyer.

He wasn’t surprised to see Greg chatting with Rufus about the next day’s schedule. Checking the clock on the wall, he noted he had a good two hours before his class started. Since the summer he’d been a part-time college student, something he’d never thought he’d be. He wanted to get into radio, maybe be a reporter, maybe a host, he hadn’t decided. Carla was thrilled and supported him fully.

“I’m heading out, see you tomorrow.” He waved to them. They waved back, Greg calling after to remind him they were digging through the music archives on Tuesday. Code for them listening to pirate radio broadcasts again. He and Greg had been listening to them off and on for months. They toyed with the idea of starting their own, but nothing had come of it yet. For the first time in years Stan felt a thrill that he’d only felt before with Ford; that dreams were possible. 

He and Ford would’ve definitely tried creating their own pirate radio station back in high school if they’d known about them. Though, he and Greg would have more success than he and Ford would’ve.

As Stan entered his apartment complex, he paused to check the mail and saw a postcard from his mother. He’d sent her one from Portland, where he and Carla had gotten hitched. It hadn’t said much, just that he was alive and well. He’d put his address on it and a week later received an eight page letter from her. The first page chewing him out for making her worried he’d died for nearly a year. The rest was all family stuff he’d missed. It was good to hear Ford was doing well in college and that Shermie and his family had moved to California. The fact that his father was recovering from a stroke left him spitefully happy that something had finally laid the blowhard low, but irritated at himself for feeling that way.

All this he kept from Carla. He hadn’t wanted to stress her with his family drama when her siblings were driving her mad. Then it’d just become a habit not to say anything.

He read the card which simply read, ‘Hope this finds you well. Make sure you have a warm coat. I love you, Ma’. He smiled and tucked it in his pocket before climbing the stairs up to his floor.

Carla was sitting on the couch, her hair down, a box of tissue beside her, clutching a pillow. She looked up as Stan closed the door behind him.

“You’re home,” she said softly.

“Are you okay? What did the doctor say?” He came to sit next to her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.

“I’m pregnant,” she replied. “About eight to ten weeks.”

“Oh.” Pregnant, but they’d been cautious. She was on the Pill.

“The doctor said sometimes the Pill fails. He was an ass to me honestly. Went on about safe sex right away and I’m telling him I’ve been on the Pill, and he tells me I need to be consistent with it. I’m like, fuck you buddy, I know that and I have been.”

Stan held her tighter and let her vent.

“I shouldn’t have stopped using a condom.”

“It was either stop or have itching and burning down there,” she huffed. Carla’s allergy had been sudden. The doctor had told them to stop using them, let it clear up before they tested her for specific allergies. 

“I know,” he mumbled. It didn’t make the situation better. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know yet. I want kids, but now isn’t the best time.” Leaning into him, she was silent for a few minutes. “But I’m not sure I want to abort either.”

“Whatever you decide, I’ll agree to.”

She pushed away, her expression irritated. “I don’t want you to blindly agree. I want you to have a say.”

“But it’s your body. You’re the one who’s going to have to give birth to a baby. And that’s after nine months of pregnancy. I’m just the guy who knocked you up.”

“First off, you’re my husband. We need to discuss this as husband and wife. Second, I appreciate you understanding what I’m going to have to go through, but you’re going to be a father and that’s something for life. I’ll just have a nine month head start on the parenting thing. Third, if you don’t want the baby, just say so.”

“I don’t know Carla. I don’t know if I’m dad material. I mean look at my examples. My father and your father. Neither are Dad of the Year.”

She breathed deeply and let it out in an extended angry low growl as he stood and began pacing behind the couch. For five minutes neither spoke, the tension pressed in compounding with every turn of his pacing. Stan itched to flee, to be anywhere else until he could calm himself. 

“Dad’s protective, he always has. It’s why I rebelled so much as a teen,” she said at last. “Everything was stifling. I wanted to be treated like an adult and not a child. He still sees me as his little girl. He wants to protect me from all the boys because he knows what’s going on in their minds.

“That doesn’t give him license to be a jerk to you,” she continued. “You’re my husband and I have chosen you. That said, despite their examples, I think you’ll be a good dad. You were awesome around my nephew at our wedding and you’d known him all of five minutes when he tried to climb you.”

Stan laughed. “That one’s slippery.”

“He’s all Todd. Todd was like that too according to Mom.”

“So what do we do?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet, but whatever decision we make, we’re in it together.” She patted the couch cushion next to her and he came around to sit. They held hands.

“Together,” he echoed, raising one of her hands to his lips and kissing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm...I think we all know where in the timeline this will lead to. :) 
> 
> I hope everyone's staying safe and healthy out there, especially those in areas that have been pretty much shut down for the foreseeable future. (I'm right there with you.)


	8. Difference of Perspective: Ford

### April 1975

Ford’s heart beat a mile a minute. The men in front of him held his life in their hands, figuratively at least. The PhD panel had all his research, his whole body of work from the last few years in front of them. The review had been done, the presentation over with. He’d been questioned, grilled, and through it all, he hadn’t faltered.

Dr. Crocker stood up. “Congratulations Dr. Stanford Pines, you’ve earned your PhD.”

 _Yes! Yes!_ Ford nearly leapt out of his skin with joy. He shook hands with each of the professors and accepted their congratulations. They were impressed and amazed by his dedication, having only seen one other person receive a PhD in five years, by passing the usual Doctorate process altogether. Ford was flushed with their praise, buoyed up by their approval. Even Dr. Crocker’s dull explanation on what to do next couldn’t pull his feet back to earth. After the initial giddiness died down and he was finally able to leave the building, Ford raced back to his apartment, stopping at the grocery store to pick up a bottle of Pitt Cola to celebrate. He’d add a little extra from the bottle of bourbon Shermie had sent him for his twenty-first birthday last year.

He threw open the door and headed straight to the kitchen. Digging out the bourbon, he set it and the Pitt Cola on the counter, before rinsing out a glass from those piling up in his sink. Excitedly he hummed, his mind buzzing with “what to do next” ideas. He still had time to apply for a grant for this year, but first he needed to pick a location to start his research. Ford wasn’t sure that was necessary during the application process, but he suspected it was. There was so much to do, but he was so close to starting the next step in his journey, it was almost tempting to start the grant writing now, but he deserved to pause and celebrate. Also, he’d promised to give his family the news the moment he knew the results of his thesis.

He knew who he’d call first. Heading to the phone, he dialed Shermie’s number.

“Hello?”

“Shermie, it’s Ford. They accepted it. I’ve got my PhD.”

From the other end of the line, Shermie let out a whoop and poured congratulations on him. Ford smiled.

“Have you called Ma and Pops?” he asked.

“No, you’re the first.”

“I’m honored,” his brother said. “I feel then that you should hear our big news first too.”

“I know you’re expecting, or Ruth is,” Ford said. “Ma let it slip two months ago.”

“We figured, but Ruth had been having some difficulties, and so the doctor decided to do an ultrasound and we found out we’re expecting twins!”

Ford was elated for him. Another set of twins in the family, the odds were long in general, but twice in the same family… He shook his head. 

“Ford?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just in shock, that’s all. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, they’re due September 8th, but Ruth doesn’t think she’ll make it that long. We’re already placing bets for who does first diaper change duty,” he chuckled. “So what’s next for you Doctor Pines?”

Ford told him about the grant and gave a general overview of his planned research. Shermie listened, for as long he could until Jacob and Levi started fighting in the background, their shrill cries piercing even across the phone line. Ford winced at a particular eardrum shattering one reverberating through the line; he was glad he had no children.

“You should go. They need you before they break any windows with their screeching,” he said.

“You have no idea how high they can go. Anyway, congratulations again.”

“You too,” Ford replied before hanging up.

Twins. There was going to be another set of twins in the Pines family. It was amazing when he thought about it. They’d have so much fun together: secret languages to make up, hidden forts to construct, legendary creatures to seek out, though he wasn’t familiar with any mysteries or anomalies in that region of California. It would be years before they could go out exploring on their own. Find their own Jersey Devil.

He remembered that; it was one of the best days of his youth. He and Stan had found the real Jersey Devil while following the fake trail Stan had made as a way to avoid punishment for breaking a glass case in the pawnshop and stealing a gold chain. Wasn’t that just like Stan, to steal and lie about it to avoid responsibility when confronted? Ford closed his eyes, willing the tightness in his throat away.

Today had been a good day, he shouldn’t ruin it with thoughts of his twin. He’d moved on, he was better, he’d accomplished so much.

Why did the news of a new set of twins dredge up all things he’d settled years ago? Was he to be forever linked to Stanley? An invisible thread that would never break until they died.

He strode back to the kitchen and opened the bourbon. He wanted to enjoy his victory damn it! No more thoughts of Stanley. No more! His memories could stay in the past where they belonged. He poured the alcohol into the glass, more than was probably necessary, but he didn’t care. The Cola went in next, slopping over the side in his haste. Taking a deep breath, he raised the concoction to his success and downed a third of it. Shuddering at the taste, he waited for the booze to warm him, sipping more carefully over the next few minutes. He was a lightweight, so it didn’t take long. A bitter smile crept across his face.

“Shermie’s kids won’t turn out like us,” he told the empty room. “Because Shermie will stamp out any Stanley-like behavior. He doesn’t want a repeat and neither do I.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to me and here’s to my life. It’s ten times better without you in it Stanley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twins you say Shermie? Hm...what do you plan on naming these two bundles of joy? 
> 
> If you hadn't surmised, the twins will be Mabel and Dipper, making Stan and Ford their uncles in this AU. Why? Well, that's for later. Can't spoil all my future plot threads, now can I?


	9. The Start of Something: Stan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this chapter two days ago, but then got smacked with a bout of insomnia followed by extreme tiredness due to the insomnia. This means I don't function well and things that aren't routine or urgent slip through the cracks. Hope everyone else is doing better. 
> 
> This and the next will be brief little chapters before we hit the final set and with those final ones, I will be posting the first chapter of the sequel fic shortly there after. Otherwise, you all might strangle me through the internet and I want to live.

### March 1977

“Greg, what the hell? It’s two in the morning,” Stan growled into the phone. “We just got Abby down finally, she’s been sick the last two days.”

“Sorry, sorry, but I had to call. This could be your big break!”

“I hear music in the background. Is June with you? I swear, you get my little sister-in-law drunk, I will drive down to Eugene and personally kick you in the balls.”

“She’s twenty-one, she’ll be fine. But she’s not with me. I’m calling from the station.”

This got Stan’s attention. Next to him in bed, Carla rolled over and grabbed the receiver from him. 

“Greg, I’m about to skin you alive. Someone needs to be either dying, bleeding, or pregnant- Oh, fine.” She slapped the receiver back into his hand. “You’ve got five minutes while I go use the bathroom and get a glass of water.” 

Tossing back the blankets, she hoisted herself out of bed and put her robe on. 

“You bought yourself five minutes. Spill,” Stan growled to his best friend.

“Stan, sorry, no. Listen, I found out that the owners are looking for new talent for their late night show. The current guy is a diva both on and off the air and, well, we’re all tired of his attitude.”

“And you thought of me.”

“You sound like I wouldn’t,” Greg said, his tone dropping, hurt.

“I didn’t mean it to come out like that. It’s been a hard week.” Stan was exhausted. He’d added another class this quarter, bumping him up to nearly full time student, but just under the cut off to be considered one. He might as well be for all the work he was doing.

“I get it. Anyway, they want a demo tape. You could pull out all the stops. DJ, radio play, talk show host, all the characters! If you got it, you’d move here, Carla could get a job as a school counselor instead of substitute teaching. Plus we’d be working together again, June would be close by to babysit, and you could transfer to the university here.”

“Winners all around,” Stan muttered. “Couldn’t this have waited until daylight hours?”

“Probably, but-” Greg said sheepishly before Stan cut in.

“You couldn’t contain yourself. God, you and June are meant for each other. I am almost sorry we introduced you.”

“I’m usually better than her, except when it comes to my best friend.”

“Suck up. Anyway, call me back when the sun’s up. Carla’s giving me the stink eye. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Sure.” He hung up without saying good bye and Stan didn’t blame him. Carla could be a dragon if she didn’t get enough sleep. Placing the receiver back on the phone cradle, he lay in the dark while she hung her robe up.

“So what was it?” she asked, sliding back under the blankets and tugging them around her.

“He may have a radio host job for me. The new station owners are looking for new blood for a late night show.”

Stan felt her roll over and drape an arm over his chest. “Would it mean moving to Eugene?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She hummed sleepily. “It’d be nice to be near family again.”

“Even if it’s your little sister?”

“She can’t steal my clothes anymore. Baby widened my hips.”

They chuckled and snuggled, falling asleep in each other’s arms.


	10. The Start of Something: Ford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANNOUNCEMENT: I've updated the tags for this fic because I realized that I'd tagged something incorrectly. That Minor Character Death has been changed to Character Death. The only reason it is not Major is because neither Stan nor Ford are dying. I've done this because, after talking a bit with my beta reader, we agreed that although my initial reasoning for tagging it that way seemed right from a show canonical standpoint, their loss has more impact in this AU. I'm sure some readers will guess what's going to happen. I'm sorry in advance. Make sure you have tissue nearby.
> 
> As I said in the first chapter, this story came out of background scenes from the main story I want to tell. So this death has always been part of the plan. I just want to remind everyone and give you a heads up. The next two chapters after this will not be happy ones. (If you need comforting drinks or snacks afterwards, now is the time to get them ready. I'll give you a few days.)

### August 1981

“Why are you listenin’ to late night radio? Don’t you ever sleep, Stanford?” Fiddleford asked, coming in to Ford’s study. 

Ford sat at his desk, the portable radio perched on the shelf above, tuned to his favorite station. Nick Nightly was interviewing a woman claiming to have spotted Elvis at a gas station with a car full of pugs. Ford doubted her story was true. Elvis wasn’t a pug lover from what he knew. Still, Nick was treating her with all the seriousness and respect given by true journalists. 

“It’s not late night. The show starts at eight o’clock.”

“But is still goin’ at eleven? That’s headin’ into late night territory,” Fiddleford chided.

“Nick Nightly is a rarity. A thoughtful host who treats all his callers fairly, no matter the subject. Not like most DJs.”

“Most DJs, to be fair, are there to play music and have a little fun with callers,” Fiddleford said, moving into the room. “Look, I wanted to talk to you about the expedition tomorrow.”

Reaching up to turn down the radio, Ford waited for Fiddleford to continue. “I’m a tad concerned. I don’t know, I just get an odd feelin’, like we’re bein’ watched from the woods.”

“It’s simply your imagination. There are many animals in it, but they won’t come near the house. The odd harmless gnome may come in, but a swift broom usually dissuades them.” He paused. “Though they do bite.”

“And that’s another thing,” Fiddleford said, drawing his arms in and looking around the room nervously. “You say that gnomes are real, that unicorns are real, but Stanford, if they’re real, what about the dangerous ones? The dragons and trolls of the world?”

“You know, I don’t believe I’ve found traces of dragons here. The odd flying octopus, yes.”

“This isn’t makin’ me more comfortable,” Fiddleford said, his Tennessee accent coming in thicker as he grew more worried.

“Relax old friend. Nothing will harm you. I know what I’m doing.”

“You keep sayin’ that, but you don’t know fer sure. Dragons eat people.”

“As I said, I haven’t-”

“That ain’t the point,” Fiddleford interrupted. He glanced at the two large backpackets sitting in the middle of the study.

They were stuffed full of gear and equipment they’d need for the expedition to Crash Site Omega. Ford hadn’t fully explained what he’d discovered there, wanting to savor his friend’s reaction to confirmation that aliens did exist. The joy he’d felt at being proven right was overwhelming and he wouldn’t rob Fiddleford of that moment. So he’d been vague, but perhaps it wasn’t enough to soothe Fiddleford’s fears. He could be tentative at some of the silliest things.

“Then what is?” Ford asked, turning fully to face him.

“The point is...as exciting as you find all this, I don’t know. I grew up with stories of monsters devouring people, witches cursin’ princes an’ shepherds, princess’ stuck in castles, an’ the like. Now your tellin’ me it’s all real.”

“Witches can be a bit, cantankerous isn’t the right word, protective? Yes, protective of their homes and some are too quick to throw a sp-”

“Stanford! Do ya mind?” Fiddleford snapped. His accent was thick as the day they’d met, proving how distressed and serious he was.

Ford shut up.

“Ya only see the wonder of it, but there’re things out there that go bump in tha night. If tha good is here then so is tha bad. I just want ya ta see that. You see that, right?”

He nodded. “I know that F. I’m not blind. I’ve come across some scary things, but as long as we keep our wits about us, we’re absolutely fine. I promise.” He smiled reassuringly, catching his friend’s eyes. _It’ll be fine. Trust me._

“I hope so.” Fiddleford turned and left the study. Pausing at the door, he looked back. “You should go to bed.”

“I will, as soon as Nick Nightly does.”


	11. It All Comes Undone: Stan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard to write, but it needed to be done for the narrative as a whole. I'm sorry Stanley. *hands tissue out to everyone* 
> 
> I'll be posting Ford's chapter later today.

### December 1, 1980 

The hospital air burned his lungs, the concoction of sanitation chemical fumes churning his stomach with each breath. Abby clung tightly to his chest, head buried into his button up shirt crying.

Sitting beside them on the padded bench, June clutched her arms, digging her nails into her sweater sleeves, rocking back and forth.

Stan glanced back toward the double doors at the end of the hall, glad no camera sticking through or reporter with a microphone grinning like a hopeful shark at them. 

Abby wailed for her mother as Stan rubbed soothing circles on her back, wanting the same.

The surgery was taking forever.

The double doors swung open and Greg walked through, much to Stan and June’s relief. 

“I’ve chased them off,” Greg said, approaching the trio. “The staff are pretty ashamed they made it this far. Apparently one of them knew Carla because his kid goes to her school. That’s why…” he trailed off. He sat on the other side of June, reaching out to hold his fiancée.

There’d been reporters when he’d gotten to the hospital. Vultures, Stan thought, though the irony that he worked in radio and they covered news topics like this was not lost on him. He hoped the station’s reporters were better than this though. That they weren’t ambulance chasers.

This was so messed up.

“Has anyone called John or Claire?” Greg asked. It’d taken Abby’s birth for John and Claire McCorkle to finally see their son-in-law as something more than ‘that Pines boy’. Stan didn’t blame them considering the horror stories of what his father and uncles had done to John in their youth. It was no wonder the man had held a grudge long into adulthood and directed some of his resentment at Stan.

June shook her head and Stan couldn’t find his voice. He kept replaying the phone from the school’s secretary in his head. The stammering, the shouting in the background, it was on endless loop as he rocked Abby in his arms.

“Mr. Pines? Your wife...Carla- oh God, someone just plowed through a crosswalk full of students. She tried to stop them. You need to- The ambulances are taking them to-”

She’d managed to choke out which hospital finally after three false starts. 

Carla had finally gotten her dream job of being a school counselor. A middle school. She’d been so excited. There were other young teachers there and she’d made friends quickly. She loved her job.

The roads surrounding the school were busy, so the staff took turns as crosswalk guards. The city was large, third in the state, and the traffic wasn’t always mindful of the eleven to fourteen year olds. She loved those brats, even with all their drama.

There was no doubt she’d willingly put her life before theirs. After all, she helped him off the bridge all those years ago.

That day seemed so far away now, but in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t that long. Seven years wasn’t enough time.

He hugged Abby tighter. 

And they’d been expecting again. She’d just started her second trimester. Fuck. The odds she hadn’t already lost it were so low, it’d take a miracle for it to survive. Stan could use two miracles right now, but if he only got one, then it had to be Carla. They could try again.

 _Please_ , he prayed.

The doors to the operating rooms opened and a man in green scrubs walked out. He made his way to the quartet on the bench.

“Mr. Pines?”

“Yes?” Stan answered, his voice raw and hoarse.

“I’m Dr. Morris, can we speak a moment?”

He motioned Stan to come away with him, so he gave Abby to June. His daughter refused, holding on fiercely.

“Sweetie, I have to go talk to the doctor,” he said. “Sit with Auntie June and Uncle Greg. Please.”

“No.”

“It’ll be a moment, I promise. Just a moment. I need to find out what’s going on with Mommy.”

“I’ve got her Stan,” June said at last, gently prying her twelve fingers from his shirt. 

He bent down and held her hands so she couldn’t grab on again.

“Daddy-”

“Shhh, shhh Sunshine. I’m right here. I’m not going through the doors. It’ll be all right.”

She curled around her aunt, looping her arms about her neck and laying her head on her shoulder. His heart ached at her scared, distraught face, but he needed to speak to the doctor.

“What’s the word?” he asked when the two were a few feet away.

“She’s broken her pelvis, three lower ribs, vertebrae L2 and L3 are cracked, but C4 is broken. There is a chance she may be paralyzed from the neck down.”

“I see.” His breathing picked up and his chest felt tight. Please don’t let me have a heart attack, he thought as the doctor gave him a moment.

“There is massive trauma to her lower abdomen. We noticed she was pregnant.”

“Second trimester. We lost the baby, didn’t we?”

Dr. Morris nodded. “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry. There’s more.”

“What else?” He almost didn’t sound like himself. It was as if he was hearing himself speak through a long tunnel. That he was watching all this, but not moving his lips.

“Her brain is swelling. We have to cut open a piece of her skull to help relieve it. It needs to be done now.”

“Do it. Whatever you need to do to save her.”

“Mr. Pines, we will do what we can, but you need to be aware that she may not make it.”

“I know Doc. I lived on the streets for nearly three years. I saw people beaten or frozen to death. When I saw her, before she went into surgery, I saw how she looked. I’m not stupid. I know there’s a chance she won’t make it, but there’s a chance she will. Can you at least give it your all for that chance?”

“Of course. We’ll do all that we can.”

He left and Stan went back to his family to wait.

Carla’s surgery took hours. They moved her to ICU, kept her in a medically induced coma for weeks, but she never woke up.

At twenty-seven Stanley Pines was a widower and his child motherless. For the second time in his life he felt horribly aimless. The only things that tethered him to reality were Abby, Greg, and the entire McCrockle family descending upon him and refusing to let him go through this anguish alone. And, for the first time, his mother flew out in secret to hold her son as he laid his wife to rest.


	12. It All Comes Undone: Ford

### January 1982

His eye bled, red dripping onto the page of Journal 3 as he scribbled furiously in thick strokes. It stung and Ford wanted to cry. The tape hadn’t worked to keep him from falling asleep. Bill had gotten ahold of his body, done who knew what with it. Ford scrawled out the demon’s taunting messages, obliterating the code he could read easily, the code Bill had taught him. Damn that creature and damn him for believing his lies!

He was such a fool! How could he not see the flattery was fake? Their two year relationship was nothing but lies built on manipulation. It gutted Ford how easily he’d fallen for it all. How long had Bill been messing with his mind? Had Bill rearranged his memories to mistrust Fiddleford? Was anything he knew even real or snippings spliced together from the scraps the dream demon had ripped his life into? Why had he agreed to let Bill into his mind, to control his body? God, how often had the demon done so without his knowledge?

Ford’s face contorted as he held back tears. There was no time for this. He had to find a way to stop Bill. Self reproach and apologies could come later. If there was a later. He didn’t want to die, but if that’s what it took to stop Bill and correct his mistake, he would. Briefly he wondered who the police would call when they eventually found his body. Probably Shermie, he had his phone number right next to the telephone in his office.

The thought of his older brother receiving the call he’d died twisted his stomach. He’d blown him off for Thanksgiving and New Years again this year for the sake of the project. What had he said? Was the way he remembered Shermie’s hurt voice real or had it been tempered to keep him working on the Portal? Ford wasn’t sure.

His eye continued to bleed.

Wiping it on the sleeve of his coat, Ford reached for Journal 2. He had to hide them, get them out of his possession before Bill used them to activate the Portal.

Fiddleford had been right.

Kind, knowledgeable Fiddleford who he thought wasted a golden opportunity when he left. Ford was a terrible friend. Sniffing, he realized he was losing control. The tears fell, mingling with the blood in his right eye. _Stop it!_ He yelled at himself. _There’s no time for emotions. I have to be logical. I have to stop Bill, but how?_

It took him longer than it should to remember the mailbox in the woods. The one he’d found before he’d summoned Bill. If you put a letter in it with a question, you got a response, even if it was brief. Well, Ford had a question. Snapping desk drawers open, he dug through debris to finally find a blank piece of paper. In large black letters he wrote: ‘How do I stop Bill Cipher?”, folded it and stuck it in an envelope.

He staggered to his feet, wobbling as he stood for a moment. Right, he hadn’t eaten anything all day. Undeterred by this problem, he stuffed both journals into the interior pockets of his long coat and worked his way to the kitchen. There wasn’t much coffee left in the pot, but it would suffice. He poured it into a used mug. Dumping a cup of sugar into it, he guzzled the sludge and waited for it to take effect. In the meantime, he braced himself against the kitchen table, worried if he sat down, he’d never get up again.

Rubbing his eye again, he pulled his hand away and studied the blood on his fingers. It appeared to be coagulating at last. He needed to keep moving. He needed to stay awake. Where were his journals? Patting his coat, he found the last two where he’d left them and let out a sigh of relief. Wait, two? Where was Journal 1? Still downstairs, maybe? He hoped so as he pushed about the haze of his mind. He couldn’t remember. That alone caused him to freeze and take a few shuddering panicked breaths. Bill really had a done number on him and his attempts to stay awake probably weren’t helping.

His eyes flitted around the kitchen, easily passing over the stacks of dishes and finally falling on something not meant to hold food. It was his radio. _Ah, so that’s where it was,_ he thought. With the sugar and caffeine not yet kicking in, he walked over and picked it up. The case had been damaged, he didn’t know how, but the tuner still worked. He twisted and turned not knowing what time it was or if he’d hear what he was hoping to hear.

“What I like doing best is Nothing.”

Ford’s hands trembled at the voice.

“How do you do Nothing,” asked Pooh after he had wondered for a long time,” Nick Nightly read. It was after eight o’clock. Bedtime stories.

“Well, it's when people call out at you just as you're going off to do it, 'What are you going to do, Christopher Robin?' and you say, 'Oh, Nothing,' and then you go and do it.

It means just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering.”

Ford almost sobbed, his jaw clenched tight to keep from doing so as relief washed over him. Nick was there, Nick was reading a story. He was still out there. Curling around the radio Ford listened, wishing he were a child tucked away in bed. Wishing Stanley was nestled next to him as Shermie or Ma read them stories. He wanted it back, that time when the world was right, before he’d messed it up, before he’d lost his first best friend, before the world was too bright and the allure of glory too irresistible. Back when it was he and Stanley against the world, back to the days of listening to Winnie the Pooh tales.

He stayed there until Nick was through reading. He said goodnight, he told his Sunshine he loved her and a novelty comedy song began to play. Ford turned off the radio and set it on the table. He patted his inside coat until he found the photograph he’d tucked in it weeks ago. Ma had sent it to him. He didn’t know where her letter had gone, but the photograph was still with him. 

He and Stan, young, wild at heart, eager to see what this wide world could hold, stood on the derelict boat. The Stan O’War. He touched the boys they’d been, wishing he could pull a little happiness from the past to the present from their smiles. He took a deep breath. One, two, three, and put the photograph away. It was time to go.

He walked out the door into the night, flashlight in hand and crossbow at the ready. The snow crunched under his boots as he traveled through the well known part of the forest around his home. For once he didn’t see any creatures, not even a Hidebehind. He trekked deeper, his urgency driving him and keeping his mind focused.

The Mystical Mailbox stood out, its metal un-rusted no matter how much time had passed. Even the red flag was bright under his flashlight beam. Ford pulled open the door and stuck his letter in, pulling the flag up to alert whatever astral, spectral, or ethereal being was responsible for picking up the mailbox’s mail.

He counted Pi while he waited.

A scraping sound and the flag lowered, the box shuddered and Ford nearly ripped the door off its hinges. He pulled out another envelope and tore open the flap. Fumbling, he tried not to drop the flashlight as his cold anxious fingers pried the folded paper out. At last he got it.

‘Family is key.” It read. “Head southwest. Don’t be afraid to eat the deer.’

Confusion burned away to leave anger and disgust. Ford crumpled the letter and shoved it in his pocket. What kind of answer was that? He’d asked how to defeat Bill, not drag his family into his mess! And why would he be afraid to eat a deer? He’d had venison before! 

Stomping away, he threw curses at the mailbox and the universe for not giving him straight answers when he needed them.

The forest was just as dark coming as it was going. Ford glared, frustrated that he’d ever thought the Mystical Mailbox would give him a useful answer. He sputtered at the incredulousness, winding himself up further until he noticed the flashlight flicker.

He paused, unsure if it had or if he’d lowered the beam out of his line of sight briefly.

It flickered again.

There was no mistake this time. He had to get home quickly, before went out. Running in snow, even snow that barely comes up over the toe over your boot is hard. Ford wasn’t making the time he wanted as the light sputtered, the air around him growing colder. His nose felt numb and stuffy, his throat drying quickly as he breathed.

Then the light went out.

Ford froze, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but the moon’s light was dim, the trees blocking most of it. Trembling, he could practically feel a large yellow eye open behind him. In the shadows and shapes of the forest, it loomed, Bill’s eye was always watching him. 

_It’s not real,_ he told himself. _I’m still awake. My toes are ice, if I was asleep, I wouldn’t feel them._

The feeling that he was being watched didn’t leave. Slowly he turned until he saw a blue glow coming from a huge shape. He cautiously stepped toward it, the shadows seemed to step out his way. It was a giant tree, hundreds if not thousands of years old. It drew his attention like a match hovering over spilled gasoline. 

A ghostly hand reached out from inside the tree and Ford dreaded what it was attached to. The specter pushed its way out of the tree as if it, no he, were rising from a bed. Dressed in deerskin clothes, the man’s long hair hung loose about his shoulders. On his head, a wolf skin, with feathers tied to it. 

“W-who are you?” Ford asked, shrinking in on himself.

The ghost looked at him, a fearsome expression on his face. “You summoned him. I left a clear warning. I used all my knowledge and created a warning that could be seen and understood by all, no matter their language or tribe.”

“Modoc, the shaman Bill tricked,” Ford whispered. “You left the warning?”

“Before my demise, yes. You ignored it. You built his door, I’ve seen it, we’ve all seen it. The spirits and animals of this forest have watched you. You are arrogant, prideful, and it has doomed us all.”

“I didn’t mean to! I only wanted answers. All good scientists seek answers, enlightenment! It’s how we understand our world,” he replied, a gnawing fear in his stomach. “I can stop him. I know I can. I just need time and I’ll find the answer.”

“An answer was provided. I left one way. The box claims there is another.”

“The box? The mailbox? It didn’t give me an answer!” Ford snapped. “Just nonsense and I’m not dragging my family into this.”

Modoc glared, unimpressed by Ford’s reaction. His frown deepened and he raised his hand. “If you will not take our help seriously, then you must be removed from here.”

“No, wait! This is my home! I can save it!”

“Stanford Pines cannot exist while Bill’s eyes are on him and the pact remains intact. May the salamander take pity on you.”

White fire suddenly surrounded him and Ford found he couldn’t run. It closed in on him, catching his damp boots on fire. He stomped, but the flames swelled, climbing his legs up to the edges of his coat. He screamed as pain laced through him. Lifting his gaze pitifully to Modoc, Ford could only regret his life and wish it’d gone differently. The fire consumed his body, leaving it a burning mass collapsed on the ground.

Stanford Pines ceased to exist.

The fire died down to embers and the mass moved, taking on a new form. Four legged and covered in brown and white fur, the dog shook itself and gazed up at Modoc. The ghost pointed and it cowered, ears flat against its head, tail down. 

“Be gone from Gravity Falls. May you only return when you have restored your bonds to Night, and Sunshine proclaims you kin. For then Stanford Pines will gain that which Bill fears.”

The dog heeded the warning and fled through the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this story. Everything's bad for both brothers for various reasons. The next story will pick up shortly after this chapter ended, so look for it shortly. I'm not going to make everyone wait on it, especially since these last two chapters were such downers. (Not that the beginning of the next story is a bundle of Mabel Juice induced fun...I mean, it's Stan and Ford not together and working on their issues still.) And I'm sure everyone wants to know where we go from here.
> 
> I'll just get on that then. But first some coffee, maybe a snack,...Okay! Okay! I'll make one more pass over the first chapter and get it up! Quit giving me the evil eye. That's Bill's job.


End file.
